Crash Land
by theemotionalrangeofateaspoon
Summary: From the perspectives of anyone who is or has been important in his life, but most importantly himself, this story follows the two years between The Fall and his return while he was destroying Moriarty's network. My genre's probably don't fit, it's all of them at once to be honest. Rated T for language.
1. Crash Land

**Hey! I won't be talking to you through this, I'll have my "author's note" here at the start and when I'm done I will have one at the end. So I might as well say everything to you now. Please favourite and follow, review if you want - _constructive_ criticism is welcome and does help! **

**So, I'm writing this for someone and I wanted to explain the situation, please skip this if you don't want to read it, it's probably going to be quite mushy.**

**As you will know if you've read previous fics of mine, _epitomeoffangirls _is my best friend in real life and on here and she is my beta. I lost the people that I used to call my best friends earlier this year and she's been there for me since then. I love her so much and I don't deserve her and I thank my lucky stars I've got an amazing friend like her by my side everyday. This story will be based on one of our shared favourite songs _Crash Land_ by Twin Atlantic. It's a really lovely song and (she's going to kill me for this) it was the song playing when she had her first kiss so it means a lot to her._  
_**

**Each chapter will be based on a line from the song and throughout the story there will be references to _epitomeoffangirls_. So without further ado, here is my story and I hope you enjoy it! ~ theemotionalrangeofateaspoon xx**

* * *

"Suicide of Fake Genius"

"Crash Land"

"You know if Jim – sorry, Moriarty – wrote that it would probably say "Crashed and Burned"" Molly joked.

"Trust you to think of _Jim_ when we're reading up on my suicide," Sherlock sighed.

"I helped you fake your death and I'm letting you stay in my flat until you start your little adventure, you're supposed to be nice to me," Molly smirked with her nose still buried in The Sun.

"Molly, I don't do _nice_," he said, rolling his eyes.

"If you make me a cup of coffee in the morning I'll forgive you," she teased.

"Do I have to?" Sherlock whined, grinning at her.

Molly nodded, yawning at the same time. Immediately after, Sherlock yawned too.

"Come on, Sherlock, time for sleep," she moaned, tugging at the sleeve of his dressing gown.

He reluctantly followed to his bedroom. Well, her room, she was sleeping in the guest room. She picked up Toby from the bed and Sherlock flopped down against the pillow. He was asleep in seconds.

"I suppose surviving a fall from Bart's is tiring," Molly whispered. She turned off the lamp and kissed Sherlock's forehead quickly. "Goodnight, Captain Holmes."

"I'm going to kill Mycroft," he groaned. Not quite asleep then.

"Now, William, that's not very nice!" she reprimanded him, giggling, before he threw a pillow and a middle finger her way.

Sherlock rolled over onto his back and placed his fingers over his mouth while he thought. Moriarty's network had to be pulled apart until not a single thread remained. He would need help and although he liked staying (and being babied) at Molly's flat, he would have to be on his way soon. He began to piece a map together of all the places that Moriarty would have his network hidden. A part would be in China, because he had been in control of the smuggling ring. He was sponsoring serial killers so Sherlock would have to look into that. The countries which used to be Czechoslovakia, Miss Wenceslas had managed to get into contact. The Golem too, other assassins could have been under his control. All these other places that he would have to search _after_ Britain because obviously people had been put into contact here, "Jim'll fix it" as Sherlock had dubbed it. He may have to get into contact with The Woman, she'd tell him something. Or she would once she'd been reminded of him saving her life. Finally, Mycroft had been watching Moriarty and had had him imprisoned for information, if anyone would have files on his network it was Mycroft.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes, they were itchy and sleep was calling to him but sleep could wait for a while, he was on a case.

_I need files on Moriarty. Email me ASAP. – SH_

Sherlock's phone started buzzing and the screen lit up with Mycroft's name.

"Hello brother dear," Sherlock exclaimed sarcastically.

"Do you ever sleep, Sherlock? It's 4am," Mycroft complained

"Not when there's a criminal network that needs to be stopped."

I'll send the files in the morning, I can't access them at night."

"You occupy a _minor_ position in the British government, if anyone can get to those files, you can"

Mycroft was about to reply when he heard a shout of complaint from Sherlock and Molly's voice on the phone.

"Sherlock's going to sleep now, Mr Holmes, whatever you're doing you can do tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Miss Hooper."

But the line had already gone dead.

Sherlock made a face that Molly hadn't seen on anyone under 9 years old.

"Don't give me that look. I have work and you have Moriarty, your case hasn't started yet and you are not going to keep us both awake so go to sleep now"

"You know, when you're at the morgue, you're a lot more understanding of my habits," he grumbled under his breath.

"Well, I'm not at the morgue at 4 o' clock in the bloody morning, am I?" she retorted.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry, I'll go to sleep now but can I have my phone back please?" he asked and held out his hand.

"Your phone stays with me until my alarm goes off"

"Sleep in here then"

"What?" Molly choked and gave Sherlock a confused look.

"It's a double bed, there's enough room and I need my phone near me in case Mycroft sends me the files" he pouted at her and patted the bed beside him.

"You are utterly ridiculous, Sherlock Holmes" she sighed but climbed in beside him and, to Sherlock's disappointment, put the phone under her pillow.

"Goodnight Molly"

"Night," Molly said, yawning.

Back to the mind palace then. Sherlock kept trying to get through to Moriarty's cell door but was constantly greeted by Molly's plain wood one. Rolling his eyes he walked in to find her sitting there on her sofa with Toby curled up on her lap, and she was softy humming a lullaby to him.

His deductions of her swirled around her image. Strong, intelligent, cat-lover, heavy-sleeper, loyal, coffee-drinker all there along with her dress size, perfume (Jo Malone's Orange Blossom Cologne), height and weight. New ones had joined since he'd been living with her: funny, confident, firm, and beautiful. How he hadn't seen these before confused him. She'd always been funny, but he'd always brushed off her awkward jokes, he'd always seen her as shy and scared and a pushover but she wasn't and he'd always seen her as plain but spending so much time with her, he'd noticed that she really was very, very pretty.

A loud beeping noise from Molly's bedroom woke them both from their dreams.

"Piss off" Molly groaned but got up and shuffled to her room to turn it off.

Sherlock threw her pillow away to get to his phone, if it had been there.

Molly came back into the room holding Toby and smiling sleepily. She threw his phone at him.

"Come on, Sherlock," she said, "You owe me a cup of coffee"

He smirked drowsily and slumped through to the kitchen with her.


	2. So I Can't Find You

"It will help, John" said Ella.

"Writing a letter to him, explaining how I feel isn't going to help because he's never going to read it because he's dea-" John cut off and buried his face in his hands. "I can't do this. He was my best friend and I'm never going to see him again because he's in a box, underground and he's not coming back."

"John, listen to me, you need to get your anger out and if you won't say it to me or on your blog then you should write a letter"

"But what's the point in writing a letter if he's never going to read it. Nothing I do will ever bring him back, no matter how upset or how much I stand at his gravestone and plead with him. This is pointless, I don't even know why I'm sitting here with you having therapy. It didn't help me get over the psychosomatic limp or mentally get out of the war, and look," John held up his shaking hand, "The tremor has returned. It was Sherlock who helped me find my way back into normal life, even if the cases and risking our lives wasn't normal. He took me out of my hole and now, you know what, sod this."

John took his coat and stormed out of the room. He ran to Mike's house, where he was staying just until he had a new place, as Baker Street was off limits. Mike wasn't home yet so John just lay on his bed and sobbed until he was asleep, where his dreams were filled with Sherlock jumping off the roof and John not being able to stop him.

He woke up to find 5 missed calls and a voicemail on his phone. Mrs Hudson had phoned, he wanted to see her but she reminded him too much of Sherlock, and he would have to go to Baker Street to see her. He could phone her but, he just couldn't. Four of the calls and the voicemail were from Ella.

"John, this is the third time you've ran out. I know it's hard but we can work through this, if you'll just co-operate. I've got you in for next week at the same time. You can move on, but no one said it was easy. Please try, if not for me or for you then for Sherlock. He wouldn't have wanted to see you like this."

John couldn't help but agree. He had to get on with his life, with or without Sherlock. Starting with work. He couldn't be off grieving forever. He called in to the hospital and said he would be in the next day.

"Morning"

John looked up from his desk to see a blonde nurse at his door.

"Oh hi, I thought you were, um"

"The last nurse? She's left, so I've taken her place, I'm Mary." She smiled.

"John, so is my first patient here?"

"No, we aren't open yet. But I've seen what's been happening in the news and when you were in the canteen this morning you looked a bit lost so I thought I'd see if you were okay"

"It's just my first day back since, you know, besides I'm always lost these days," he shrugged.

"Well, I'm here if you need to talk,"

Meeting Mary put a smile on John's face for the rest of the day. He spotted her at the canteen at lunch.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" he asked.

"Not at all," she smiled. "You don't look so lost anymore."

"No, you cheered me up. I was wondering if you'd talk to me about something." He sat down in the seat across from her.

"Shoot," she said, sipping her peppermint tea.

"Do you think he is – was – a fake? I keep getting looks from people and my blog is filled with people putting him down, and I feel like I'm the only one in the world who believes in him"

"No, I don't think anyone could pull off what they're accusing him of doing."

"Really?" John looked hopeful.

"Really,"

They talked every day at lunch, going out for drinks in the evening too. John found that Mary, who was now his girlfriend, was better therapy than Ella had ever been. So he phoned her to say that he no longer needed her help. He wrote a blog post about moving on, and his tremor went away but Mary said that he still looked lost sometimes.

"I think you should write that letter to him," she said.

"He'll never read it though."

"You still have things to say to him."

"I've said things to him, at his grave but, "

"But?" she asked.

"Look, I had this idea, but I didn't think I'd be able to do it on my own. I want to visit every single place that I've been with him, and just remember. I think I need to look back to move forward."

"I'll come with you, you can tell me your memories."

"Okay, after work, do you want to go to St Bart's? Start at the beginning?"

"Of course."

At the morgue, he recalled the details that Sherlock had noticed about him the very first time they met. Molly walked in on them, and she and John talked for a bit about all the times they'd been with Sherlock in that room.

As the days of remembering turned to weeks of remembering, with dinner at Angelo's restaurant, a weekend in Dartmoor, they'd been everywhere except Baker Street and Sherlock's grave. John still felt he could never step foot in 221B again.

"I'll give you a couple minutes," said Mary and walked off into another part of the graveyard. John checked to see if she was gone and then started to speak.

"Three months since you jumped, Sherlock. It's been three months and I'm still stuck. Mary and I have been everywhere that we ever went together. Angelo, Molly and Greg miss you, everyone misses you. I've been to the Black Tramline, I've been to the Hickman, and I've been to Lauriston Gardens. It was good to go back, and to see people I haven't seen in ages. But every time I've been to a place I expect to see you there making deductions, every time I hear a violin I expect to see you playing it and every time I read a story about a murder mystery or something in the papers I expect you to be making snide comments about how you know who did already. It's like I'm lost Sherlock, and I can't find you, and then I think I've found you and you aren't there and I'm lost again. Just, please come back."

A tear rolled down John's cheek but he wiped it away.

"John?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Mary"

She took his hand and stood by him.


	3. Just As Things Were Looking Up

"Goodbye, Molly," Sherlock gave her a sad smile and walked out of the door.

"Sherlock, wait."

He turned back as she pulled him into a tight hug.

"Be safe," she whispered into his shoulder.

"Hey, you know me, I'm virtually indestructible."

Molly watched from her window as Sherlock got into the cab and drove off into the unknown world of Moriarty's web.

Sherlock watched from the cab window as Molly's flat sunk further into the distance. He wished he could stay with her, he wished he could wake up and have the bloody cat on top of him and Molly, half-asleep, making coffee for both of them. But it was no use being pampered while there was a fully-functioning criminal network on the go. Just as things were looking up, he had to leave for danger.

As he entered his mind palace, little bits of Mycroft's information and his own deductions floated in the air.

Jammu and Kashmir – Naachnaa (Terrorism)

Tibet – Aaliyah Chorum (highest assassin in network)

Hong Kong – Smuggling Ring (Black Lotus)

Somalia – Qoob-ka-cayaarid (head of a group involved with human trafficking, burglary, homicide and rape)

And London, the very heart of Moriarty's network, where Mycroft's men would be tracking down those who clients are "put in contact" with, who arrange everything until all Moriarty had to do was consent to the crimes.

The cab had been outside the airport for 10 minutes now.

"Mate, I know you're thinking but you might want to get out, I can't stop here forever," said the cabbie, tentatively.

Sherlock handed him the fee and stepped out onto the pavement. He made his way quickly through security and sat down by his gate. He sat and waited for a minute before his flight was called from the speakers.

"Flight BA0055 to Hong Kong is now available for boarding."

Sherlock stood up, and looked out towards where his plane was waiting. He could still turn back. He didn't have to do this, Mycroft could get his men to do it. Probably.

"Sir?"

Sherlock looked at the flight attendant. He was less than pleased about her rousing him from his thoughts of running back to Molly's flat.

"Yes?" he sneered.

"You've been standing at the desk for ages now, if you aren't boarding the Hong Kong flight can you let those who are boarding to get past you please?"

She smiled irritatingly as Sherlock handed her his boarding ticket and fake passport.

"Have a nice flight, Sir"

"I'll certainly endeavour to," he grumbled under his breath as he stalked off.

Almost everyone was on the plane and there were still plenty of seats at the back, it looked like Sherlock was getting his row to himself. As he settled himself into his seat and his thinking pose, a young girl and her mother sat down next to him. Just as things were looking up.

"Mummy, can I get my magazine and my sweeties?" asked the little girl in an infuriatingly high voice.

"Ellie, the flight hasn't even started yet. You'll be bored later if – "

"Pleeeeaaaaaase!" Ellie whined.

Her mother gave in and Ellie spread her elbows out, onto Sherlock's and her mother's armrests, so that she could hold it. She started giggling at whatever childish things were on the first page, she chewed her fruit pastilles loudly and she kicked her legs against her chair.

Dear God, it wasn't too late to turn back was it?


	4. We're Stuck

"You'd love this one, Sherlock. A man found dead with a knife in his hand, but without a stab wound. The autopsy has come through and the only recent mark on the body was a needle puncture, but he's newly home from Mexico, so he's had injections. Any suggestions from up there? Maybe you could ask him yourself."

Greg laughed at his joke. He wished it was possible for a Sherlock-angel to speak to him. Well, maybe he would be a Sherlock-devil. This was the third time he'd been to Sherlock's grave to talk about murder. It was a bit weird going to a dead man to talk about dead people but it helped him organise his thoughts more on cases and get a bit into Sherlock's mind. If that was even possible.

"There's also some red marks around the puncture but apparently the man's never been good with injections. There's no reason for him to be dead. There aren't any traces of poison in him, he hasn't had any underlying heart problems, no strokes, and he just collapsed and died. Sherlock, I know you can't hear me wherever you are or I just can't hear you but help me. Anderson and Donovan are on my back, because 'I can't solve crimes without Sherlock.' I miss having you around to make fun of me but you're gone so…..send me some sign of how he died, or something."

He finished lamely and walked back to Scotland Yard where the other police men and women were waiting to make jibes about the 'fake genius.'

Just as Greg was entering his office he heard a shout and a rush of footsteps. He turned around to see Sergeant Jude Edward fall to the floor in a choking fit. Shouts of "Oh my God, what's happened to her?" and "Is she alright?" rose above the crowd forming around her. Sally Donovan ran to the front, brandishing an EpiPen, and stuck it into Jude's leg. Slowly, Jude stopped gasping and struggling and managed to sit up.

"Christ, what just happened?" Greg asked Donovan.

"She had an allergic reaction,"

"Yeah, I know that. To what?" He sighed.

"I think it was the flu jab I had earlier, I was supposed to be careful in case that happened. I had a really bad reaction at the clinic last year," Jude replied, still shaking and breathing heavily.

Jude rolled up the sleeve of her shirt and peered at where she had had her injection. It was red, inflamed and everyone winced when they saw it.

"Come on let's get you to hospital," Donovan helped Jude up and they left.

"Another minute and she might have died on the spot," Greg heard one of the other sergeants behind him say.

He ran to his office and peered at his case files for the murder he was talking to Sherlock about. The pictures of the man's arm was almost identical to Jude's one. Greg punched a number into his phone as quickly – and violently – as he could.

"Hello?" came the voice from the other end.

"Molly, I need you to look at some medical records for me."

* * *

"Sherlock, I don't know how you did it but thank you. Not sure it was nice of you to almost kill Jude though." Greg was back at Sherlock's gravestone.

"You see, it turns out Dave Paul, the man I was telling you about, is allergic to tomatoes. His flatmate has severe anxiety, schizophrenia, paranoia and a whole heist of other disorders. Put those together and you have a dangerous man that is very suspicious of his flatmate. So suspicious that he thought his flatmate was trying to kill him. Dave Paul had a knife because he was chopping up some chocolate, which his flatmate happens to be allergic to. So the flatmate sees him, becomes convinced that he is about to be murdered and takes out a needle which he has filled with tomato serum or something, just in case his life is in immediate danger because of his flatmate, and injects Dave with it. Dave dies, flatmate is no longer in danger of the chocolate and we are left baffled. Even the pathologist suspects nothing when doing the autopsy because tomato is not weird to see in the body and we weren't checking for allergies. This was all confessed to us this morning by the flatmate once I realised he was the murderer."

Greg laughed to himself. "Thank you. I know I wouldn't have solved this without you."

"Anderson's leaving, Sherlock. He feels so guilty, and I know he should but I can't help feel sorry for the man. He believes you're still alive, and he doesn't want to go back to Scotland Yard until he's got proof that you are," Greg smiled. "We're stuck, Sherlock. We're all stuck without you here to tell us how stupid we all are."

"Please come back." He whispered. Then, shaking his head, he turned around and walked off.


End file.
